


Three Dances

by CastleriggCircle (BanjoOnMyKnee)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie Lives, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I mean I've been known to write much faster burns than this, I reject canon's reality and substitute my own, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Romance, Screw all of Season 3 but the finale in particular, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanjoOnMyKnee/pseuds/CastleriggCircle
Summary: Because Abbie and Crane deserve to dance together.





	1. Present

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the kind of "Season Three" I was hoping and expecting after the Season 2 finale. Crane took some time to sort himself out after Katrina and Henry's deaths, but he didn't just ghost and he wasn't gone nearly as long. Abbie is still in the Sleepy Hollow PD, and they are still the two-and-only unique Witnesses prophesied in Revelation.

Crane danced, awkwardly, to the pulsing throb of the club’s music. If music it could be called. It wasn’t that he was opposed to music that had been composed after his time as a general matter. His fondness for the Hamilton soundtrack had led to an exploration of _show tunes_ in all their rich variety that for some reason amused the Lieutenant to no end. And he had rather enjoyed his introduction to such modern genres as _hip-hop_ and _rock_ and _pop_ under her patient tutelage. But this was mere noise, a sort of endlessly looping _boom, boom, ba-ba-boom._

_Just sway from side to side,_ Abbie had told him as they prepared for this mission. _Try not to look too stiff._ And trying he was, though he was quite certain he was failing. But as she swirled around him, a scarlet-clad dervish with serpentine spine and shimmying hips, she grinned encouragement. They’d come here to catch an incubus. Watching her dance, Crane felt as if he were transforming into something like one himself, a being driven by pure lust. Her red dress, so tight, so short-skirted, left so little to the imagination.

In the last half hour, she had ignored six different men’s attempts to lure her away from her gangling, awkward partner. But when a square-jawed blond man with icy, piercing eyes, severely handsome in a silk shirt of blood-crimson, beckoned to her, she danced across the floor to him as if compelled.

No, not _as if. I won’t leave you unless the incubus claims me,_ she’d said. _Then you’ll have to wait for his transformation to start before you can kill him. If you do it while he’s in human form he’ll just rise again the next night and hunt again._

So Crane watched and waited, biting back his rage at the sight of the monster’s possessive grip at her waist, the way her hips ground back against him. To know that she was compelled to this, her own desires and will no longer hers to command…Crane’s grip tightened on the silver-bladed dagger concealed in his pocket. Why would that monster not transform already?

_There._ The incubus’s eyes glowed red; his hands elongated into claws. Crane drew the dagger and hurtled into him, pushing the Lieutenant aside and slashing the blade into his throat. Just as the ancient tome they’d found had promised, the demon dissolved in a flash of light and smoke.

The music pulsed on without ceasing, but the dancers around them stopped and gaped. Normally this was when Abbie would have produced some plausible tale, but now she just leaned against Crane, dazed and gasping for breath.

“Only a test of the new light show scheduled for Halloween,” Crane shouted. It sounded inane to him, but it served the purpose. Their audience shrugged and went back to their dancing.

Abbie stood straighter, but threaded her fingers tightly through his. “Not bad,” she yelled into his ear. “But please—take me home.”

“Of course.” He’d never been more delighted to depart from a dance.

Ordinarily the Lieutenant preferred to drive, but this time she wordlessly passed him the keys. As he pulled out of the club’s parking lot into the street, she leaned forward and rested her face in her hands, taking long shuddering breaths.

It was unlike her to be so shaken by a fight. “Are you quite well, Lieutenant?”

She sat up straight and favored him with a tight smile. “I will be. That—that was just so weird. Like, there was this one tiny part of my brain that knew what was really going on, that I didn’t want it, but there I was anyway…and now I’m still coming down from it.” She shifted in her seat. “God…I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

Of course, the kind of desire an incubus ignited couldn’t simply be turned off, as with the flip of a light switch. Crane’s fingers curled more tightly around the steering wheel. “If you need to speak of it, then I do want to hear it.”

“You’re a good partner,” she said with a ragged laugh.

“You deserve nothing less.”

“Thanks.”

Neither of them spoke again until he pulled into her driveway some ten minutes later. “Thanks again, Crane,” she said as she unlatched her seatbelt. “I’ve got the day off tomorrow, so if you could just bring the car back by ten or so?”

“Whenever you need it,” he assured her. “Or—I could stay, if you’d like.” It wouldn’t be the first night he’d slept on her sofa, though generally it had happened because of a research session or movie night that had gone so late he’d fallen asleep there quite by accident, and once he’d been caught by a blizzard that had rendered the road to the cabin impassible. “I should hate to think of you by yourself, should you find yourself in any distress over tonight’s events.”

She froze in the midst of pushing open the passenger door. “What?” Their eyes met and held, and awareness seemed to pulse between them. They’d had more and more such moments, since his return from the four-month solitary journey he’d taken after Katrina and Henry’s deaths. 

This time Abbie looked away first. “No, I’ll be fine. Really. This isn’t one of those fuck or die things—that was that other book, with the Carpathian succubus, remember?”

He did. The illustrations had been too graphic to forget even for someone _without_ an eidetic memory. “As long as you’re quite certain…”

“I am. Really. I mean, if it was something like that, there’s no one I trust more than you. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure this will wear off on its own, and I don’t want our first time to be because I’m hopped up on demon lust.”

_Our first time._ Did that mean the desire he felt wasn’t one-sided, that she too had been considering the possibilities, now that no prior commitment rendered him honor-bound to rein in his attraction to her? Their eyes met again, and she licked her lips…

And then she shook her head decisively, bit her lip hard, and slid out of the car. “Good _night,_ Crane. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Before ten,” he agreed.

“But not much before,” she warned with an admonishing finger. She shut the car door firmly—it wasn’t quite a slam—and hurried up the steps to her door. After she unlocked it, she paused just long enough to give him a reassuring finger-wave before slipping inside.

***

Abbie hadn’t lied. She was, very gradually, coming down from the overpowering demon-induced arousal. This wasn’t going to kill her.

She was, however, too horny to sleep.

She’d taken two Benadryl half an hour ago, but the medicine wasn’t having its usual lights-out effect. Instead, she was groggy and horny. Not a fun combination.

With an annoyed sigh, she rummaged in her bedside table drawer for a vibrator. But the instant she touched it to her aching flesh, her memory flooded her brain with images of the incubus in the club, his hands on her body, pulling her against him.

No. She wasn’t going to give that _thing_ the satisfaction of her…satisfaction. She tried to replace the memories with better visions—actors and athletes she found hot, and one or two more fondly remembered past boyfriends.

Nothing worked. Not even Idris Elba in the long coat from _The Dark Tower._ Dammit. Maybe she shouldn’t have sent Crane home. Surely she wouldn’t be having these god-awful intrusive thoughts if he were in bed with her now, with those elegant, long-fingered hands stroking and exploring, soft lips contrasting with a raspy beard—oh, God, how would they feel between her thighs…and just like that she came hard, unable to hold back her scream.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered as she settled herself for sleep. They were going to have to face up to this thing between them soon, weren’t they? And it terrified her. They still had years of apocalypse fighting ahead of them. What if it didn’t work out? What if they ended up hating each other, but still tied together by the duty they were both way too stubborn to abandon?

Everything had been so _nice_ since he got back from his walkabout after Henry and Katrina died. It had been a weird four months. Lonely. She’d looked forward to his weekly check-ins, when, like clockwork, a text would hit her phone with a selfie of Crane in some new location and the words, _Proof of life, as promised. And you?_ She’d respond with her own brief reassurance—and start looking forward to next week’s message. It was good to see the haunted look fade from his eyes as the weeks went by, and how the backgrounds changed from nondescript hotel rooms and fast food joints to carefully selected spots of scenic beauty or whimsical bizarreness. The man had bought a motorcycle, and he was riding around America on it. She printed out the selfie with Mount Rushmore in the background and stuck it on her fridge.

Then one day, three months ago, instead of her text notification pinging, her doorbell had rung, and she’d opened the door to find him on her doorstep, smiling sheepishly. They’d hugged, gone out for coffee, and it was as if nothing had changed.

Almost. He was more self-sufficient now, bringing in enough money from an assortment of odd jobs to pay the cabin’s utilities and keep himself fed and clothed. Which was a relief, especially to her bank account. And it was just the two of them now, no complicated magical 18th century family to make all kinds of trouble. Abbie had been doing her best not to think of what that might mean for them. Tonight, at least, the Benadryl finally caught up with her before she had to come to terms with anything else.

She woke up around nine. As she stood and stretched, blinking out at the bright sunshine of a perfect October morning, she saw that Crane was already waiting in her driveway.

She frowned. Or else he’d never left. He was obviously asleep, slumped against the driver side window, and he still wore the tight black t-shirt she’d made him wear to the club instead of his usual colonial attire. She shook her head in fond exasperation.

It took her about fifteen minutes to take a speed shower and throw on jeans and a sweatshirt. She trotted out into the crisp morning air and rapped on the car window. “Crane! Wake up.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Ah. Good morning, Lieutenant. I trust your night was restful?”

“More than yours was, I’m sure. You didn’t need to spend the night in my driveway, you know.”

“On the contrary. I found myself too tired to drive.”

Abbie didn’t believe that for a moment. Crane could pull all-nighters almost as well as a college student during finals week when the need arose. But rather than call him out on it, she crossed to the other side of the car and let herself in. “Donuts,” she pronounced as she buckled her seat belt. “I’ve been wanting to try that new shop over on Twelfth.”

“I do love the way your mind works, Lieutenant.”


	2. Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been those damn blue eyes of his, looking so pleading and hopeful. Like a malamute puppy. How was she supposed to say no?

Abbie blinked at her reflection. She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to this.

_It’s only fair, Lieutenant,_ Crane had said. _I accompanied you to your club and attempted your sort of dancing._

_That was to catch a demon,_ she’d replied. _Are you expecting any, I dunno, zombie redcoats at the Historical Society Halloween ball?_

_If anything of that sort appears, we shall be prepared._ Off her frown, he’d added, _Please?_

It had been those damn blue eyes of his, looking so pleading and hopeful. Like a malamute puppy. How was she supposed to say no?

So here she was at the fanciest costume shop in town, being laced into a rented colonial ballgown, complete with all the historically accurate underpinnings of chemise, panniers, and stays—which the shop owner had assured her were much more comfortable and less constricting than a Victorian corset, though Abbie wasn’t sure she believed her. And once she got the whole complicated ensemble on, she had an evening of minuetting and gavotting around the ballroom at the Marriott to look forward to.

“You look just like Belle,” the costume shop assistant informed her with a happy sigh.

The dress was yellow enough for it. “Or Peggy Schuyler,” she suggested, and attempted the pose, hip thrust out, one hand in the air. “Werk!”

“Either way, you look gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” Abbie just hoped she could make it through the night without tripping over her sweeping skirts and landing sprawled in the middle of the dance floor.

At least she’d always have the satisfaction of remembering the way Crane’s eyes darkened when he saw her. He swept her his deepest bow, full of flourishes. “Miss Mills. You are a vision of loveliness.”

She fanned herself—the fan matched the dress, all yellow satin with ivory lace. “You flatter me, Captain Crane,” she replied, playing along with his old-school manners as best she could. He was looking pretty damn hot himself in a new uniform he’d had made especially for the occasion.

The dancing turned out better than she’d expected. They had a caller, like with square dancing in grade school PE class, and a lot of the sets were so obviously the ancestors of those square dances that it was easy to get the hang of them. Only it was so much better than fourth grade, when you’d been partnered with Antonio Perkins of the clammy hands and clumsy feet, to have an Ichabod Crane to look at you with glowing eyes and guide you through the more complicated bits with his strong hands and murmured directions in that deep, purry voice of his.

Next there was the fun of his whispered critiques of the supposedly period-accurate refreshments—apparently the syllabub was too sweet and the little iced cakes would have been better flavored with rose water than vanilla—and for-her-ears-only tales of the balls at Washington’s headquarters during the war.

As the dancing began to wind down, they drifted out to a terrace just off the ballroom and stood together gazing at the moonlit river. Abbie shivered in the breeze coming in off the water, since the dress left her with barer arms and more cleavage than was comfortable outside on a late October night. Crane stepped behind her and drew her into an embrace, sheltering her with his warmth.

Did this count as their first date? She’d been thinking about the state of their partnership more than she wanted to admit the past few weeks, and she’d finally made up her mind that there were risks in denying their feelings, too. Not to mention that no one else would ever understand their strange destiny, so maybe it was for the best if their bond got that much deeper. If life and love were risky no matter the choice you made…why not seize at happiness while you had the chance?

So now she tested it, leaning back against him and laying her hand atop his where it rested at her waist. He sighed and pressed his lips to the top of her head. _Ah. Guess we’re on the same page, then._

“Thank you for inviting me,” she said. “This was fun.”

He laughed, and the rumble of it went straight down her spine. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly sure about this kind of dancing. Thank you for not letting me fall on my face in there.”

“Nonsense. You’re a natural.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Maybe we could meet in the middle—take some ballroom classes are something. Swing dance, tango, that kind of thing.”

“I’d like that.”

They shared a long moment of comfortable silence. With his free hand, Crane smoothed the lace at her dress’s elbow-length sleeve. “You miss it, don’t you?” Abbie said.

“Miss what?”

“When women dressed like this. The balls, the manners—all of it.”

“Hm.” He slid his hand down her arm and toyed with the fullness of her skirt. “I miss a great many sights and sounds and smells I can never experience again. But there are compensations. I’ve seen wonders the people of my generation could never have imagined. And I got the chance to meet _you.”_

“Flattery,” she said lightly.

“Truth.” Again, a swift press of his lips to the top of her head. “And while I do enjoy the sight of a beautiful woman in the height of my native century’s elegance, it would be most impractical for that woman’s everyday life as an active and athletic officer of the law in this era.”

“You’ve got that right.” Abbie chuckled at the thought of chasing down a bad guy, whether demonic or human, in corset, billowing skirts, and dancing slippers.

“I do thank you, however, for indulging me this evening,” he said softly. “It’s been a pleasure, to step back into my world even for a little while, and to share its more elegant side with you.”

“It’s been a pleasure for me, too,” she assured him. Then, suddenly daring, she added, “So, when a gentleman lured a lady out onto a dark balcony in your day, did he ever try to steal a kiss?”

He drew in a sharp breath, and his hand tightened at her waist. “He might, though if he was wise, he looked for signs of encouragement that the lady shared his wishes, lest he find himself rapped on the knuckles by her fan or even on the receiving end of a slap to his face.”

“I see.” She twisted to face him and wound her arms around his neck, arching up on tiptoes. “And how might she go about encouraging him?”

_“Abbie,”_ he breathed, and his lips were on hers, warm and seeking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to finish the final chapter this weekend, but I'll be at GeekGirlCon here in Seattle Saturday and Sunday, so I may not have time. If not, I should be able to get the ending up by mid-month.


	3. Timeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you ever hear why Baptists are against sex standing up?” she asked.
> 
> It was his turn to laugh. “No. Why?”
> 
> “Because it might lead to dancing.”
> 
> He deposited her on the bed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Then I consider it a matter of great good fortune that neither of us is Baptist.”

They didn’t speak much on the drive home from the Halloween Ball, but kept stealing happy little glances at each other, and every time Crane didn’t need both hands on the steering wheel they held hands. It felt like high school—at least, what Abbie imagined high school love must’ve felt like if you were a nice, happy girl from a stable family who went out with nice boys instead of a trouble-making, trouble-seeking foster kid who snuck out looking for self-destruction. She’d had her share of relationships, and most of her post-high school ones had been more healthy and sane than not, but she’d never felt this wide-eyed wonder at the beginning of a romance before.

She trusted the innocent part of the giddy wonder wouldn’t last long, though. At least, it had better not. It wasn’t even close to the first time she’d cast an appraising eye over Crane’s body, all the long, lean strength of him…but it wasn’t hypothetical anymore. _Soon,_ she promised herself.

They pulled into her driveway, and he cleared his throat. “Do you…I suppose you will still need assistance with your dress?”

Even in the dim light of the car she could tell he was blushing, and she felt her own face heat. His somewhat embarrassed offer from before the ball to help her unlace her dress afterward because the costume shop closed at six, Jenny was out of town, and such girlfriends as might’ve helped her were all either out doing their own partying or fast asleep, now seemed a bit more freighted. “Otherwise I’ll be wearing it all night,” she pointed out. “And I don’t think I could possibly sleep in this thing.”

He chuckled. “I’ve no doubt you could, with practice. As I recall, the ladies of my day were just as adept as men at falling asleep during long sermons at church, or during quiet afternoons in overheated parlors following large dinners. But I take your point.”

Once they were inside he gave her a maddeningly chaste and respectful kiss, tipping her chin up with the fingertips of one hand. “If you would turn around, Lieutenant…”

She complied, and he got to work on the long row of hooks and eyes securing the back of her dress. She could hear his breath quicken, but his hands stayed steady. Such a gentleman. She’d have to do something about that.

When she stepped out of the gown, draping it carefully over the back of her sofa, he hissed an indrawn breath, and his hands did shake as he started unlacing the stays. “Admirably authentic, this lacing,” he commented.

His voice was carefully steady, but Abbie didn’t buy it. “Is it, now?” She swayed back against him—and felt his erection, firm and insistent at her back.

He gripped her shoulder. “Lieutenant. You tempt me beyond what I can bear.”

She reached up to thread her fingers through his. “That’s kinda the point.”

“Are you certain? I…wouldn’t wish to be too hasty.”

She turned so she could see his face—eyes heavy-lidded with desire, nostrils flaring with each breath. “If you think we’re going too fast, of course we’ll stop.” No matter what she wanted, she didn’t want to push him beyond his comfort level. She just hoped that comfort level had adjusted to twenty-first century values by now that it wouldn’t mean a carefully chaste and chaperoned courtship. “You can go home,” she continued, “and I think I can manage these crazy clothes from here.” Now that the stays were loose, there was nothing left to unfasten that she couldn’t reach. She’d just rather have him do it.

She waited for twitching hands, for stammering apologies. They didn’t come. Instead he touched one of the long ringlets the hairstylist had left loose to brush against her shoulder, winding the curls around his fingers. With a small smile, she swayed closer to him. “But,” she said, “to me it feels like this has been building between us for a long time. You’re here, I’m here, nothing is trying to kill us just now. Why not seize the moment?”

He slid his hands down to her hips and pulled her against him. “Why not, indeed?”

They kissed and went to work at undressing each other. It felt so natural and right, a dance they were equally adept at. She took the lead to guide him to her bedroom before they were all the way naked. And just when she was getting a little tired of having to stand on tiptoes to kiss him, he picked her up and it was effortless—where did he keep so much muscle on that string-bean frame of his?

She wound her legs around his hips and reached for his cock. “You ready for this?” she asked.

He let out a breathy laugh and nodded. “Can you doubt it?”

She kissed him and guided him to her entrance. They both gasped as he filled her. Oh God, it felt so good, better even than she’d imagined, as he thrust and she undulated against him. Turning, he braced her against the wall for more leverage. Faster, harder, a steadily building rhythm, and all the while he alternated between kisses and murmurs of _so good…so lovely…my Abbie._

It was _so_ right, the two of them like this, that Abbie didn’t know what she’d been afraid of, what she’d been fighting for so long. They were made for each other, made for this dance, and the sheer joy of it along with the pleasure somehow bubbled out of her in a delighted laugh.

He paused. “Abbie?” he panted, a faint note of worry creeping into his voice.

She pressed her forehead against his. “You’re wonderful. This is perfect. I’m just so happy.”

“Ah.” He kissed her, tightened his grip on her hips, and spun around to carry her toward the bed.

“Did you ever hear why Baptists are against sex standing up?” she asked.

It was his turn to laugh. “No. Why?”

“Because it might lead to dancing.”

He deposited her on the bed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Then I consider it a matter of great good fortune that neither of us is Baptist.” And then he went to work undoing what was left of her assumptions that a man born in 1749 might need a little upgrade to his sexual skillset.

A long time later, when they were exhausted and sated—for the moment—they lay curled together, big spoon and little spoon, nested under her blankets against the October night. “Crane,” she murmured before sleep dragged her down.

“Mm?” he asked through a yawn.

“We _fit,”_ she said. Someday she might have more words, but this night she couldn’t think of a better way to express the rightness of what they were becoming now.

And he pulled her even closer and kissed the top of her head. “We do.”


End file.
